


It ain't what they call you, it's what you answer to

by Kaiidth



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Insecure Napoleon, M/M, gaby and illya being awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 01:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10674666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaiidth/pseuds/Kaiidth
Summary: Gaby and Illya find out "Napoleon Solo" isn't Napoleon's real name





	It ain't what they call you, it's what you answer to

**Author's Note:**

> Soo haha, here I am again, I guess I have the stupid movie to thank for getting me back into writing. (why didn't I watch it sooner??) 
> 
> This was inspired by a prompt I read somewhere a while ago, but I can't for the love of me find it, sorry :/
> 
> The title is a quote by W.C. Field.

The man is pressing his hands into his own stomach, bright red and slippery, blood oozing through knobbly fingers with fatal speed, but he still looks up at them with an evil glint in his eyes, twisted grin on his lips. Looks up at Napoleon.

“I didn’t think the rumours were true. Hah, guess I was wrong. Good _team_ you got yourself, Solo,” he drawls. “Solo. Solo.” He laughs. Like a madman, Illya thinks.

Napoleon is looking at the man with an expression carved out of stone.

“Maybe it’s time for another name, Solo,” the man says with vicious pleasure, “this one doesn’t quite fit now, does it. Or maybe… you don’t plan on staying with your team for long, huh?”

“Let’s go,” Napoleon snaps and grabs Illya’s arm, bodily turning him around, dragging him away.

“Cowboy, what—”

“Napoleon Solo,” the man calls after them, something ugly in his voice, like poison. “It’s a nice facade. Take the name away, what are you?”

Napoleon turns around, fire in his eyes. “I’m _me_ ,” he growls, low and dangerous.

The man tips his head back and laughs.  


* * *

  
They complete the mission with just minor difficulties and get to the safe house smoothly with Gaby driving, but all the way Napoleon is unnaturally silent, looking out of the window, the tendons in his neck tense. Twice Illya’s eyes meet Gaby’s in the rear view mirror, same questions on the tip of their tongues.

“Did you know him?” Gaby ventures at last, always the bolder one. “The man that tried to stop you.”

From the back seat, Illya sees Napoleon’s expression tightening in the wing mirror, but when he turns to face them they’re treated to an extremely charming, extremely nonchalant and extremely fake smile. “He knew my father, I think.”

Gaby raises her eyebrows. Napoleon’s father. They know next to nothing about the man, except that he’s dead.

“What did he mean,” Illya leans forward, eyes on Napoleon, “about— Is Solo not your surname?”

It is on all of his papers, it is listed on UNCLE’s official dossier, and the unofficial one, Illya knows this. In between the numerous aliases Napoleon accumulated during his criminal carrier, during working for CIA and UNCLE, ‘Solo’ is always there as Napoleon’s identity. KGB had him identified as Solo, as well. If it is just another cover name, well, Illya doesn’t quite know how to feel about this.

It’s been almost two years. There’s trust now, implicit in their relationship. At least, Illya thought so.

“It is,” Napoleon insists. Then shifts awkwardly under their gazes. “Well, uh— Depends on how you look at it, I guess. It’s… not the name on my birth certificate.” He regards them carefully for a moment and then slowly, says, “Nor is Napoleon.”  


* * *

  
“Illya?”

Napoleon is looking at his with his usual self-assured look, but the way he says Illya’s name betrays him. The sole fact that it’s ‘Illya’, rather than ‘Peril’, speaks volumes. His eyes are solemn.

“Care for a drink?” Napoleon dangles a dusty bottle of vodka in his fingers, a very cheap bottle of vodka by the look of it, no doubt left in the safe house ages ago.

Illya doesn’t usually partake in Napoleon’s and Gaby’s drinking, but right now… Right now he can’t stop thinking about the man in front of him, with an unexpected sting of bitter incredulity. Does he even know Napoleon half as well as he thinks he does? 

“Yes,” he tells Napoleon and at his surprised expression, Illya merely shrugs. “It’s been a long time since I had vodka.” 

The three of them settle on the old couch, Gaby curling in the corner, knees drawn up, Napoleon sprawling comfortably in the middle. Illya’s overly aware of his side where it presses against Napoleon’s. Illya's overly aware of everything about Napoleon, his thoughts jumping from place to place analyzing, re-evaluating and right now he just wants it to stop.

“To another successful mission,” Gaby declares raising her glass and then knocks it back with astounding speed.

Napoleon laughs and clinks his glass against Illya’s. Their eyes meet for a split second.

The vodka burns all the way down Illya’s throat.  


* * *

  
“Jack?” Gaby slurs, non sequitur, cocking her head at Napoleon.

“Huh?”

“Is that the name on your birth— birth— Is that your name?”

Illya feels Napoleon tense up for a moment, but then he relaxes, leaning more of his weight against the couch, against Illya.

“No,” he smiles self-deprecating. “‘M afraid not.”

“You look a bit like Jack,” Gaby muses.

“Do not,” Napoleon grimaces.

“You do a little, Cowboy,” Illya leans in, smiling wryly. All the alcohol and Napoleon’s presence is making him light-headed.

“Et tu, Brute?” Napoleon clutches his chest theatrically.

“Well, if you told us,” Gaby says intelligently, swinging the hand with her drink around, “we wouldn’t have to guess, y’know.”

Napoleon ponders this for a moment. “Why d’you want to know?” he ask at last, sombrely. “It’s just—” he seems to search for words and come up empty-handed, leaving the sentence hanging in the air unfinished, with a frustrated wave of a hand.

Gaby frowns and looks at Illya for help.

“We like to think we know you, Cowboy,” Illya mutters, and perhaps his mouth is a bit too close to Napoleon’s ear, because Napoleon shudders, almost imperceptibly. “It's… hard to realize we don’t even know your name.” 

“But, _that_ is not my name,” Napoleon insist, frowning into his glass. “Maybe once, but no.” There is a definite note in his voice and for a moment they all fall silent.

“My mother called me Napoleon,” he says quietly after some time, not looking up. “It’s not just some name I picked of a textbook, you know. My father, he…” Napoleon’s jaw tightens for a second. “He was not a very good man. The name, I like to think I left it behind when he died.”

Gaby’s eyes are full of compassion and she fumbles to grasp Napoleon’s hand in her smaller ones and gives it a tight squeeze. “Okay, okay,” she murmurs and Napoleon smiles at her. Illya pats Napoleon’s tight awkwardly and Napoleon’s eyes shine with amusement at his antics, the melancholic mood chased away.

“Napoleon Solo is good name,” Illya says and immediately thinks he should just stay silent, but Napoleon laughs and maybe, maybe it is worth it.

"Aw, Peril, why thank you."  


* * *

  
“Henry?”

“John?”

“Andrew?”

“William?”

“Tom?”

It becomes a game over the time, Gaby’s way of good-natured probing, and once Napoleon realizes it is just that, he plays along. It seems it helps even, the jokes and the laughter, the puzzled looks from Waverly when Gaby calls Napoleon random names once in a while, the fact that it isn’t a real attempt to find out the name. After the initial surprise, they easily accept Napoleon as Napoleon and the man seems lighter with the knowledge.

“Hm, Robert?” Illya teases one evening in a hotel in Edinburgh, and Napoleon purses his lips in an attempt to supress the smile.

“Don’t you start too.”

“Ah, so Miss Teller gets to have all the fun? No, I don’t think so.”

Illya secures the bandage he has wrapped around Napoleon’s forearm, and smooths his hands over it, letting them rest there for a brief moment.

“I’ve been wondering though,” Illya says thoughtfully, “if you’d tell us if we ever got it right, me and Gaby. Not that I— that is, I don’t care either way, it’s just… I’ve been wondering is all.”

Napoleon studies his face closely. “Do you want to know that much?”

“No,” Illya protests hands tightening around Napoleon’s arms, when he sees something guarded entering the man’s expression. “No, of course not. It’s just… curiosity, I think. It isn’t important. Forget I asked.”

Napoleon nods. “Maybe I’ll tell you, one day,” he shrugs, but the easy moment is shattered and Illya regrets ever opening his mouth when Napoleon stands up and extricates himself from his hands.

“Napoleon.”

Napoleon stops in the doorway leading to the room and half turns to Illya still sitting by the sink. All of the sudden, he looks strangely unsure of himself and Illya wants to cross the distance between them, feel Napoleon’s warmth in his arms, the damp curly hair tickling his face. He spring to his feet and takes a few steps forward.

“You know I don’t care about that—about names,” Illya fumbles with words, with English, but this is important, so he pushes himself to say it all out loud. “You will always be you, no matter what you call yourself. You will still be Cowboy to me.” Illya shrugs, the words feeling inadequate, but he hopes Napoleon understands.

Napoleon smiles slowly, a small but genuine smile and all the strange tension vanishes from the air, like it was never there. “I think I quite enjoy being your Cowboy,” he winks at Illya.

There’s that playful flirting again, that’s aimed at Illya more and more these days and makes something painful, hopeful, warm, twist in his stomach. Illya stands briskly and offers Napoleon a dry smile, “Come on, _Cowboy_ , let’s find something to eat.”  


* * *

  
A couple of months later Gaby breezes by them when they’re making their way to Waverly’s office and greets Napoleon with yet another random name. Illya catches her eye and stifles a smile, but Napoleon freezes in place, incredulous expression on his face.

“I… uh,” he laughs a little. Gaby stops in her tracks. “There’s literally thousands of names, I didn’t actually think… Huh. Well, you win, Miss Teller.” Gaby just stares for a moment and Napoleon's lips stretch into something that's half a grin half a grimace. He glances at Illya and shrugs. “Guess you know me now.”

“Oh, Napoleon, don’t be silly.” Gaby comes closer and lays her hand against his cheek briefly. Her smile is gentle, kind, she sees right through him. “We knew you long before now.”

She kisses his cheek and then Illya’s and smiles cheerfully at them as she backs out of the door. “Now, you boys behave, Waverly may have some good news for us. See you later!”

Napoleon watches her retreating with a fond smile. Illya touches his hand lightly.

“She’s something, our Gaby,” Napoleon says and his fingers twitch like he’d like to reach out for Illya’s hand.

“Yes,” Illya smiles, “she is.”

They’re halfway to Waverly’s office when Napoleon asks him, casually, oh so casually, “So, what do you think?”

“About?”

Napoleon purses his lips. “The name, Peril. About the name.”

Illya stops and takes Napoleon’s hands in his, momentarily surprising the man out of his nonchalance.

“I think,” Illya says, with all the seriousness in the world, “that it doesn’t change the man I know one bit.”

A maelstrom of emotions swirls on Napoleon’s face and Illya holds his gaze, holds his hands, firm and steady. Slowly, Napoleon smiles, it is like sun peaking from behind the clouds.

“And what man is that?” Napoleon asks, hands travelling up Illya’s forearms, to the small of his back, dragging him closer and closer, until he has to tilt his head back to look in Illya’s eyes. His smile grows wider.

Amused, Illya lets himself to be pulled into Napoleon's embrace. Napoleon's downright beaming at him now and he's not expecting Illya to answer at this point, not really.

Just to prove him wrong, Illya dips his head down until his lips are brushing Napoleon’s ear.

“The man I love, Cowboy. The man I love.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
